Spring round-up mornings start early. The cook hollers at five, but it doesn’t really matter ‘cause he has been bangin’ those pots around since four. As soon as you are up, it’s catch your horses in the dark and saddle before breakfast. You eat light ‘cause it’s an eight mile trot to where those old cows are hidin’. New men query as to how far we’ll be ridin’, but the boss only answers, “to where we are goin’!” You put one leg on each side and hope to keep ‘em there, ‘cause your ride is fresh and cold and way more awake than you are. He starts out like he’s wearin’ springs on his feet. Maybe he’s only waitin’ to dump you ‘til he comes on to some rocks and thorns. After a few miles and a little lather, the trot smoothes out and you’re gainin’ confidence by the stride. The sun is comin’ up now and the rider in front of you becomes more than a shadow moving in a rhythm similar to your own. The cattle know all the thick brush and draws. It is their home and you are the intruder, but after unmeasured miles of indescribable pattern, cattle and horses and men merge into one. Cows and calves are sorted, and while the irons are heated, there is a little time to sit against the fence with your compadres and share “Nothin’ But the Truth”.